Round Rajagriha five fair hills arose,Guarding King Bimbas?ra’s sylvan town:Baibh?ra green with lemon-grass and palms;Bipulla, at whose foot thin SarsutiSteals with warm ripple; shadowy Tapovan,Whose steaming pools mirror black rocks, which oozeSovereign earth-butter from their rugged roofsSouth-east the vulture-peak Sail?giri;And eastward Ratnagiri, hill of gems.A winding track, paven with footworn slabs,Leads thee by safflower fields and bamboo tuftsUnder dark mangoes and the jujube-trees,Past milk-white veins of rock and jasper crags,Low cliff and flats of jungle-flowers, to whereThe shoulder of that mountain, sloping west,O’erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied.Lo! thou who comest thither, bare thy feetAnd bow thy head! for all this spacious earthHath not a spot more dear and hallowed. HereLord Buddha sate the scorching summers through,The driving rains, the chilly dawns and eves;Wearing for all men’s sakes the yellow robe,Eating in beggar’s guise the scanty mealChance-gathered from the charitable; at nightCouched on the grass, homeless, alone; while yelpedThe sleepless jackals round his cave, or coughsOf famished tiger from the thicket broke.By day and night here dwelt the World-honored,Subduing that fair body born for blissWith fast and frequent watch and search intenseOf silent meditation, so prolongedThat ofttimes while he mused — as motionlessAs the fixed rock his seat — the squirrel leapedUpon his knee, the timid quail led forthHer brood between his feet, and blue doves pecked The rice-grains from the bowl beside his hand.

Thus would he muse from noontide — when the land Shimmered with heat, and walls and temples danced In the reeking air — till sunset, noting not The blazing globe roll down, nor evening glide, Purple and swift, across the softened fields; Nor the still coming of the stars, nor throb Of drum-skins in the busy town, nor screech Of owl and night-jar; wholly wrapt from self In keen unravelling of the threads of thought And steadfast pacing of life’s labyrinths.Thus would he sit till midnight hushed the worldSave where the beasts of darkness in the brakeCrept and cried out, as fear and hatred cry,As lust and avarice and anger creepIn the black jungles of man’s ignorance.Then slept he for what space the fleet moon asksTo swim a tenth part of her cloudy sea;But rose ere the False-dawn, and stood againWistful on some dark platform of his hill,Watching the sleeping earth with ardent eyesAnd thoughts embracing all its living things, While o’er the waving fields that murmur movedWhich is the kiss of Morn waking the lands,And in the east that miracle of DayGathered and grew. At first a dusk so dimNight seems still unaware of whispered dawn,But soon — before the jungle-cock crows twice —A white verge clear, a widening, brightening white,High as the herald-star, which fades in floodsOf silver, warming into pale gold, caughtBy topmost clouds, and flaming on their rimsTo fervent golden glow, flushed from the brinkWith saffron, scarlet, crimson, amethyst;Whereat the sky burns splendid to the blue,And, robed in raiment of glad light, the KingOf Life and Glory cometh!

Then our Lord,After the manner of a Rishi, hailedThe rising orb, and went — ablutions made —Down by the winding path unto the town;And in the fashion of a Rishi passedFrom street to street, with begging-bowl in hand,Gathering the little pittance of his needs.Soon was it filled, for all the townsmen cried,“Take of our store, great sir!” and “Take of ours!”Marking his godlike face and eyes enwrapt;And mothers, when they saw our Lord go by,Would bid their children fall to kiss his feet,And lift his robe’s hem to their brows, or runTo fill his jar, and fetch him milk and cakes.And ofttimes as he paced, gentle and slow,Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in careFor those he knew not, save as fellow-lives,The dark surprised eyes of some Indian maidWould dwell in sudden love and worship deepOn that majestic form, as if she sawHer dreams of tenderest thought made true, and graceFairer than mortal fire her breast. But hePassed onward with the bowl and yellow robe,By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts,Wending his way back to the solitudesTo sit upon his hill with holy men,And hear and ask of wisdom and its roads.

Midway on Ratnagiri’s groves of calm,Beyond the city, but below the caves,Lodged such as hold the body foe to soul,And flesh a beast which men must chain and tameWith bitter pains, till sense of pain is killed,And tortured nerves vex torturer no more —Yogis and Brahmacharis, Bhikshus, allA gaunt and mournful band, dwelling apart.Some day and night had stood with lifted arms,Till — drained of blood and withered by disease —Their slowly-wasting joints and stiffened limbsJutted from sapless shoulders like dead forksFrom forest trunks. Others had clenched their handsSo long and with so fierce a fortitude,The claw-like nails grew through the festered palm.Some walked on sandals spiked; some with sharp flintsGashed breast and brow and thigh, scarred these with fire,Threaded their flesh with jungle thorns and spits,Besmeared with mud and ashes, crouching foulIn rags of dead men wrapped about their loins.Certain there were inhabited the spotsWhere death-pyres smouldered, cowering defiledWith corpses for their company, and kitesScreaming around them o’er the funeral-spoils:Certain who cried five hundred times a dayThe names of Shiva, wound with darting snakesAbout their sun-tanned necks and hollow flanksOne palsied foot drawn up against the ham.So gathered they, a grievous company;Crowns blistered by the blazing heat, eyes bleared,Sinews and muscles shrivelled, visagesHaggard and wan as slain men’s, five days dead;Here crouched one in the dust who noon by noon Meted a thousand grains of millet out,Ate it with famished patience, seed by seed,And so starved on; there one who bruised his pulseWith bitter leaves lest palate should be pleased;And next, a miserable saint self-maimed,Eyeless and tongueless, sexless, crippled, deaf;The body by the mind being thus strippedFor glory of much suffering, and the blissWhich they shall win — say holy books — whose woeShames gods that send us woe, and makes men godsStronger to suffer than Hell is to harm.

Whom sadly eying spake our Lord to one, Chief of the woe-begones: “Much-suffering sir! These many moons I dwell upon the hill —Who am a seeker of the Truth — and see My brothers here, and thee, so piteously Self-anguished; wherefore add ye ills to life Which is so evil?”

Answer made the sage:” ‘Tis written if a man shall mortifyHis flesh, till pain be grown the life he livesAnd death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purgeSin’s dross away, and the soul, purified,Soar from the furnace of its sorrow, wingedFor glorious spheres and splendor past all thought.”

“Yon cloud which floats in heaven,” the Prince replied,“Wreathed like gold cloth around your Indra’s throne,Rose thither from the tempest-driven sea;But it must fall again in tearful drops,Trickling through rough and painful water-waysBy cleft and nullah and the muddy flood,To Gunga and the sea, wherefrom it sprang.Know’st thou, my brother, if it be not thus,After their many pains, with saints in bliss?Since that which rises falls, and that which buysIs spent; and if ye buy heav’n with your bloodIn hell’s hard market, when the bargain’s throughThe toil begins again!”

“It may begin,”The hermit moaned. “Alas! we know not this,Nor surely anything; yet after nightDay comes, and after turmoil peace, and weHate this accursed flesh which clogs the soulThat fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul,We stake brief agonies in game with GodsTo gain the larger joys.”

“Yet if they lastA myriad years,” he said, “they fade at length,Those joys; or if not, is there then some lifeBelow, above, beyond, so unlike lifeIt will not change? Speak! do your Gods endureFor ever, brothers?”

“Nay,” the Yogis said,“Only great Brahm endures: the Gods but live.”

Then spake Lord Buddha: “Will ye, being wise, As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones,Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans,For gains which maybe dreams, and must have end?Will ye, for love of soul, so loathe your flesh,So scourge and maim it, that it shall not serveTo bear the spirit on, searching for home,But founder on the track before nightfall,Like willing steed o’er-spurred? Will ye, sad sirs,Dismantle and dismember this fair house,Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts;Whose windows give us light — the little light —Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawnWill break, and whither winds the better road?”

Then cried they, “We have chosen this for road And tread it, Rajaputra, till the close Though all its stones were fire — in trust of death. Speak, if thou know’st a way more excellent; If not, peace go with thee!”

Onward he passed,Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how menFear so to die they are afraid to fear,Lust so to live they dare not love their life,But plague it with fierce penances, belikeTo please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man;Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells;Belike in holy madness, hoping soulMay break the better through their wasted flesh.“Oh, flowerets of the field!” Sidd?rtha said,“Who turn your tender faces to the sun —Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breathOf fragrance and these robes of reverence donnedSilver and gold and purple — none of yeMiss perfect living, none of ye despoilYour happy beauty. Oh, ye palms! which riseEager to pierce the sky and drink the windBlown from Malaya and the cool blue seas,What secret know ye that ye grow content,From time of tender shoot to time of fruit,Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?Ye, too, who dwell so merry in the trees —Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves —None of ye hate your life, none of ye deemTo strain to better by foregoing needs!But man, who slays ye — being lord — is wise,And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forthIn self-tormentings!”

While the Master spakeBlew down the mount the dust of pattering feet,White goats and black sheep winding slow their way,With many a lingering nibble at the tufts,And wanderings from the path, where water gleamedOr wild figs hung. But always as they strayedThe herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and keptThe silly crowd still moving to the plain.A ewe with couplets in the flock there was,Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behindBleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped,And the vexed dam hither and thither ran,Fearful to lose this little one or that;Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderlyHe took the limping lamb upon his neck,Saying, “Poor woolly mother, be at peace!Whither thou goest I will bear thy care;‘Twere all as good to ease one beast of griefAs sit and watch the sorrows of the worldIn yonder caverns with the priests who pray.”

“But,” spake he to the herdsmen, “wherefore, friends!Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon,Since ’tis at evening that men fold their sheep?”

And answer gave the peasants: “We are sentTo fetch a sacrifice of goats five score,And five score sheep, the which our Lord the KingSlayeth this night in worship of his gods.”

Then said the Master: “I will also go!”So paced he patiently, bearing the lambBeside the herdsmen in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.

Whom, when they came unto the river-side, A woman — dove-eyed, young, with tearful face,And lifted hands — saluted, bending low: “Lord! thou art he,” she said, “who yesterday Had pity on me in the fig-grove here,Where I live lone and reared my child; but heStraying amid the blossoms found a snake,Which twined about his wrist, whilst he did laughAnd tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouthOf that cold playmate. But, alas! ere longHe turned so pale and still, I could not thinkWhy he should cease to play, and let my breastFall from his lips. And one said, ‘He is sickOf poison;’ and another, ‘He will die.’But I, who could not lose my precious boy,Prayed of them physic, which might bring the lightBack to his eyes; it was so very smallThat kiss-mark of the serpent, and I thinkIt could not hate him, gracious as he was,Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said,‘There is a holy man upon the hill —Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robeAsk of the Rishi if there be a cureFor that which ails thy son.’ Whereon I cameTrembling to thee, whose brow is like a god’s,And wept and drew the face cloth from my babe,Praying thee tell what simples might be good.And thou, great sir! didst spurn me not, but gazeWith gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;Then draw the face-cloth back, saying to me,‘Yea! little sister, there is that might healThee first, and him, if thou, couldst fetch the thing;For they who seek physicians bring to themWhat is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, findBlack mustard-seed, a tola; only markThou take it not from any hand or houseWhere father, mother, child, or slave hath died;It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.’Thus didst thou speak, my Lord!”

“I went, Lord, clasping to my breastThe babe, grown colder, asking at each hut —Here in the jungle and towards the town —‘I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace,A tola — black;’ and each who had it gave,For all the poor are piteous to the poor;But when I asked, ‘In my friend’s household hereHath any peradventure ever died —Husband or wife, or child, or slave?’ they said:‘O Sister! what is this you ask? the deadAre very many, and the living few!’So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back,And prayed of others; but the others said,‘Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave!’‘Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!’ ‘Here is some seed, but he that sowed it diedBetween the rain-time and the harvesting!’Ah, sir! I could not find a single houseWhere there was mustard-seed and none had died!Therefore I left my child — who would not suckNor smile — beneath the wild-vines by the stream,To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and prayWhere I might find this seed and find no death,If now, indeed, my baby be not dead,As I do fear, and as they said to me.”

“My sister! thou hast found,” the Master said,“Searching for what none finds — that bitter balmI had to give thee. He thou lovedst sleptDead on thy bosom yesterday: to-dayThou know’st the whole wide world weeps with thy woeThe grief which all hearts share grows less for one.Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stayThy tears and win the secret of that curseWhich makes sweet love our anguish, and which drivesO’er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice —As these dumb beasts are driven — men their lords.I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!”

So entered they the city side by side,The herdsmen and the Prince, what time the sunGilded slow Sona’s distant stream, and threwLong shadows down the street and through the gateWhere the King’s men kept watch. But when these sawOur Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back,The market-people drew their wains aside,In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayedThe war of tongues to gaze on that mild face;The smith, with lifted hammer in his hand,Forgot to strike; the weaver left his web,The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lostHis count of cowries; from the unmatched riceShiva’s white bull fed free; the wasted milkRan o’er the Iota while the milkers watchedThe passage of our Lord moving so meek,With yet so beautiful a majesty.But most the women gathering in the doorsAsked, “Who is this that brings the sacrificeSo graceful and peace-giving as he goes?What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet?Can he be S?kra or the Devaraj?”And others said, “It is the holy manWho dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill.”But the Lord paced, in meditation lost,Thinking, “Alas! for all my sheep which haveNo shepherd; wandering in the night with noneTo guide them; bleating blindly towards the knifeOf Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin.”

Then some one told the King, “There cometh hereA holy hermit, bringing down the flockWhich thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice.”

The King stood in his hall of offering,On either hand the white-robed Brahmans rangedMuttered their mantras, feeding still the fireWhich roared upon the midmost altar. ThereFrom scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame,Hissing and curling as they licked the giftsOf ghee and spices and the Soma juice,The joy of Indra. Round about the pileA slow, thick, scarlet streamlet smoked and ran,Sucked by the sand, but ever rolling down,The blood of bleating victims. One such lay,A spotted goat, long-horned, its head bound backWith munja grass; at its stretched throat the knifePressed by a priest, who murmured, “This, dread gods,Of many yajnas cometh as the crownFrom Bimbas?ra: take ye joy to seeThe spirted blood, and pleasure in the scentOf rich flesh roasting ‘mid the fragrant flames;Let the King’s sins be laid upon this goat,And let the fire consume them burning it,For now I strike.”

But Buddha softly said,“Let him not strike, great King!” and therewith loosedThe victim’s bonds, none staying him, so greatHis presence was. Then, craving leave, he spakeOf life, which all can take but none can give,Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep,Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each,Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to allWhere pity is, for pity makes the worldSoft to the weak and noble for the strong.Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lentSad pleading words, showing how man, who praysFor mercy to the gods, is merciless,Being as god to those; albeit all lifeIs linked and kin, and what we slay have givenMeek tribute of the milk and wool, and setFast trust upon the hands which murder them.Also he spake of what the holy booksDo surely teach, how that at death some sinkTo bird and beast, and these rise up to manIn wanderings of the spark which grows purged flame.So were the sacrifice new sin, if soThe fated passage of a soul be stayed.Nor, spake he, shall one wash his spirit cleanBy blood; nor gladden gods, being good, with blood;Nor bribe them, being evil; nay, nor layUpon the brow of innocent bound beastsOne hair’s weight of that answer all must giveFor all things done amiss or wrongfully,Alone, each for himself, reckoning with thatThe fixed arithmic of the universe,Which meteth good for good and ill for ill,Measure for measure, unto deeds, words, thoughts;Watchful, aware, implacable, unmoved;Making all futures fruits of all the pasts.Thus spake he, breathing words so piteousWith such high lordliness of ruth and right,The priests drew back their garments o’er the handsCrimsoned with slaughter, and the King came near,Standing with clasped palms reverencing Buddh;While still our Lord went on, teaching how fair This earth were if all living things be linked In friendliness and common use of foods, Bloodless and pure; the golden grain, bright fruits, Sweet herbs which grow for all, the waters wan, Sufficient drinks and meats. Which when these heard, The might of gentleness so conquered them,The priests themselves scattered their altar-flames And flung away the steel of sacrifice;And through the land next day passed a decree Proclaimed by criers, and in this wise graved On rock and column: “Thus the King’s will is: —There hath been slaughter for the sacrifice And slaying for the meat, but henceforth none Shall spill the blood of life nor taste of flesh, Seeing that knowledge grows, and life is one, And mercy cometh to the merciful.”So ran the edict, and from those days forthSweet peace hath spread between all living kind,Man and the beasts which serve him, and the birds,On all those banks of Gunga where our Lord Taught with his saintly pity and soft speech.

For aye so piteous was the Master’s heart To all that breathe this breath of fleeting life, Yoked in one fellowship of joys and pains, That it is written in the holy booksHow, in an ancient age — when Buddha woreA Brahman’s form, dwelling upon the rockNamed Munda, by the village of D?lidd —Drought withered all the land: the young rice diedEre it could hide a quail; in forest gladesA fierce sun sucked the pools; grasses and herbsSickened, and all the woodland creatures fledScattering for sustenance. At such a time,Between the hot walls of a nullah, stretchedOn naked stones, our Lord spied, as he passed,A starving tigress. Hunger in her orbsGlared with green flame; her dry tongue lolled spanBeyond the gasping jaws and shrivelled jowl;Her painted hide hung wrinkled on her ribs,As when between the rafters sinks a thatch Rotten with rains; and at the poor lean dugs Two cubs, whining with famine, tugged and sucked,Mumbling those milkless teats which rendered nought,While she, their gaunt dam, licked full motherlyThe clamorous twins, yielding her flank to themWith moaning throat, and love stronger than want,Softening the first of that wild cry wherewithShe laid her famished muzzle to the sandAnd roared a savage thunder-peal of woe.Seeing which bitter strait, and heeding noughtSave the immense compassion of a Buddh,Our Lord bethought, “There is no other wayTo help this murderess of the woods but one.By sunset these will die, having no meat:There is no living heart will pity her,Bloody with ravin, lean for lack of blood.Lo! if I feed her, who shall lose but I,And how can love lose doing of its kindEven to the uttermost?” So saying, BuddhSilently laid aside sandals and staff,His sacred thread, turban, and cloth, and cameForth from behind the milk-bush on the sand,Saying, “Ho! mother, here is meat for thee!”Whereat the perishing beast yelped hoarse and shrill,Sprang from her cubs, and, hurling to the earthThat willing victim, had her feast of himWith all the crooked daggers of her clawsRending his flesh, and all her yellow fangsBathed in his blood: the great cat’s burning breathMixed with the last sigh of such fearless love.

Thus large the Master’s heart was long ago, Not only now, when with his gracious ruth He bade cease cruel worship of the Gods. And much King Bimbas?ra prayed our Lord —Learning his royal birth and holy search —To tarry in that city, saying oft,“Thy princely state may not abide such fasts;Thy hands were made for sceptres, not for alms.Sojourn with me, who have no son to rule,And teach my kingdom wisdom, till I die,Lodged in my palace with a beauteous bride.”But ever spake Sidd?rtha, of set mind,“These things I had, most noble King, and left,Seeking the Truth; which still I seek, and shall;Not to be stayed though S?kra’s Palace ope’dIts doors of pearl and Dev?s wooed me in.I go to build the Kingdom of the Law, Journeying to Gaya and the forest shades,Where, as I think, the light will come to me;For nowise here among the Rishis comesThat light, nor from the Shasters, nor from fastsBorne till the body faints, starved by the soul.Yet there is light to reach and truth to win;And surely, O true Friend, if I attainI will return and quit thy love.”

ThereatThrice round the Prince King Bimbas?ra paced, Reverently bending to the Master’s feet, And bade him speed. So passed our Lord away Towards Uravilva, not yet comforted, And wan of face, and weak with six years’ quest.But they upon the hill and in the grove —Al?ra, Udra, and the ascetics five —Had stayed him, saying all was written clearIn holy Shasters, and that none might winHigher than Sruti and than Smriti — nay,Not the chief saints! — for how should mortal manBe wiser than the Jnana-K?nd, which tellsHow Brahm is bodiless and actionless,Passionless, calm, unqualified, unchanged,Pure life, pure thought, pure joy? Or how should manBe better than the Karmma-K?nd, which showsHow he may strip passion and action off,Break from the bond of self, and so, unsphered,Be God, and melt into the vast divine,Flying from false to true, from wars of senseTo peace eternal, where the silence lives?

Popular Topics

Other Inspiring Sections

Welcome to Inspirational Stories, we believe in holding yourself together, accepting life, and making the inspired decisions that change the horizons of their life. This podium is developed for the people who want to gift compassion and empathy to the people who have been given nothing in their life and making them rise above those times. Read more.